"Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty--forty, fifty, sixty...." he muttered happily to himself. "Two fifty, three, three-fifty, four, four-fifty." It was all there, so he smiled benevolently at the man in the pay window. "Thank you muchly." Then he stepped aside to let another lucky man cash a winning ticket. His horse had come in at fifteen, six-ten, four-fifty for Straight, Place, and Show, and sixty bucks on the nose had paid off very nicely. Lenny Poe took out his copy of the _Daily Racing Form_ and checked over the listing for the next race. _Hm-m-m, ha. Purse, $7500. Four-year-olds and up: handicap. Seven furlongs. Turf course. Hm-m-m, ha._ Lenny Poe had a passion for throwing his money away on any unpredictable event that would offer him odds. He had, deep down, an artistic soul, but he didn't let that interfere with his desire to lay a bet at the drop of an old fedora. He had already decided, several hours before, that Ducksoup, in the next race, would win handily and would pay off at something like twenty or twenty-five to one. But he felt it his duty to look one last time at the previous performance record, just to be absolutely positive. Satisfied, he folded the _Racing Form_, shoved it back into his pocket, and walked over to the fifty-dollar window. "Gimmie nine tickets on Ducksoup in the seventh," he said, plonking the handful of bills down on the counter. But before the man behind the window grating could take the money, a huge, hamlike, and rather hairy hand came down on top of his own hand, covering it and the money at the same time. "Hold it, Lenny," said a voice at the same time. Lenny jerked his head around to his right and looked up to see a largish man who had "cop" written all over him. Another such individual crowded past Lenny on his left to flash a badge on the man in the betting window, so that he would know that this wasn't a holdup. "Hey!" said Lenny. His mind was thinking fast. He decided to play his favorite role, that of the indignant Italian. "Whatsa da matta with you, hah? Thisa no a free country? A man gotta no rights?" "Come on, Mr. Poe," the big man said quietly, "this is important." "Poe? You outta you mind? Thatsa name of a river----or a raven. I'm a forgetta which. My namesa Manelli!" "_Scusi, signore_," the big man said with exaggerated politeness, "_ma se lei è veramente italiano, non' è l'uomo che cerchiamo._" Lenny's Italian was limited to a handful of words. He know he was trapped, but he faced the situation with aplomb. "Thatsa lie! I was inna Chicago that night!" "_Ah! Cosè credero. Avanti, saccentone._" He jerked his thumb toward the gate. "Let's go." Lenny muttered something that the big man didn't quite catch. "What'd you say?" "Upper United States--the northern United States," Lenny said calmly shoving his four hundred fifty dollars into his pocket. "That's where Chicago is. Never mind. Come in, boys; back to the drawing board."